Starcrossed
by theytalktome
Summary: Their eyes drift up and lock onto their opposing sides of the entry that separated them from one another. A thousand miles apart in such a confined space.  Slash


The arrival of an elevator signals with a soft pinging noise that only sounds like the explosion of a gunshot in the announcer's red ears, he can hear it through the concrete just before the doors to his opposite lift open. He steps out onto the tan hotel carpet with his suitcase rolling after him, hands locked onto the handle, knuckles turning neon white and bones ready to rip through skin from the hard grip that matches clenched teeth. He watches his lover being dragged down the hall, his tattooed wrist clutched in the vice of the beastly Leviathan's hand. He advances again, slow and ever cautious of the colossal man. Unconsciously adjusting his blue tie in the collar of his eggshell dress-shirt from the nerves getting at him, he glances at the card he removes from his pocket, following the pair reluctantly. The dire coincidence of having rooms directly beside one another was a distress on its own… Did he have to hear the cries of pleading all night while he listened to his lover being struck?

Batista had not known they had been having an affair for some time now, and who would have even thought it was a possibility?

The release of his love's wrist is also done with an amount of violence that was held together. He slides the card between the slot of the keypad; both doors pushing open at the same interval, though the announcer's actions are purposely delayed. The sadistic Animal set away to himself while the commentator manages to open his own door with some struggle, the keypad proving to get the better of him once he allowed the door to shut during his anxiety. The Viper's eyes meet with his fornicator as they turn slowly, facing each other beneath the frame, their eyes catch and their stomachs sink, breathlessly and wordlessly entering their segregated rooms.

The Viper is quiet as he takes an out-of-the-way position in the room, just on the edge of the mattress he seats himself on. An instant of trepidation closing his eyes as his husband slams the bathroom door shut. Identically, in the opposite room, Michael Cole is sinking into the edge of his bed with his bags tossed aside. Their eyes drift up and lock onto their opposing sides of the entry that separated them from one another. A thousand miles apart in such a confined space.

Orton can almost feel the burn of his announcer's hate, lust and anger set the door to flames if it only could, his gaze adverts from it, staring onto the white carpet in the dark room, illuminated by the light coming from underneath the bathroom door. He turns his head back up when he finds the capability to do so through the hurt; his hands brush back the small hairs of his widow's peak, needing to divert himself although he cannot. His silver slit optics stare desperately into the wood when something raises him to his feet. He cannot control it as he walks to the door, the scent of the commentator against the door registers to his nostrils as he presses his own hand up against it, his lips parting to say words that do not escape his thoughts; his presence up against the cold door torches until he knows that the announcer can experience it.

A thousand thoughts run through their minds until they meld as one: a crashing kiss before the latest shirt design fell to the floor, the sweat dripping from their bodies. Orton's fangs bruising the inexperienced moist lips of his lover, his nails piercing through his untanned pale skin. Their bodies twisting in a fight for dominance that the Apex Predator voluntarily gave up, his bare hands - rid of the Leviathan's ring - balling the sheets together in his fists as his spine arched to the feeling of true love. The soft monotone chuckle that came at the expense of his love that had only been with one person, and was more than unsure of himself. The tie swaying back and forth on the nightstand until it dropped to the floor with the pair of tight jeans. The thunderous stampede of lightning across the bed coming to a quick end. The way the comforter gets wrapped around the Viper's body as he runs to the bathroom to teach the commentator a shower was not just for doing that.

Their hands pull back in some state of shared shock away from the door, Orton backing away as the bathroom door opened.


End file.
